


From Past to Present

by fluttermoth



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluttermoth/pseuds/fluttermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Skyrim drabbles. Pairings so far: Cicero/Listener, Erandur/F!OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Winds

**Characters:** Lumen and Cicero

**Summary:** It's just fluff.

* * *

"Cicero is _cold_ ," the Keeper complains and scoots closer to the fire-pit. Lumen does not respond. Instead she remains focused on cramming wolf pelts beneath the front door in a desperate attempt to keep the frigid winds of the Pale from blowing inside. "Cicero cannot feel his toes," he continues, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. "Or his rear."

Behind him, he can hear Lumen mutter something under her breath, and he smiles to himself when she abandons her futile task to see to him. He watches her as she yanks a heavy, wool blanket from her bed. The reckless action sends a small, decorative pillow flying to the floor. But it is forgotten when Lumen drapes the blanket across his shoulders.

He opens his mouth to thank her, but falls silent when she sits beside him to share her blanket and her warmth. His heart races when she slips an arm around him, and pulls him closer with the other. Those hands, which have broken bones and snuffed out so many lives, are deceptively gentle as she guides him to lay his head upon her shoulder. Lumen rests her cheek against the top of his head, her fingers idly playing with strands of his hair, and poor, frozen Cicero could not be happier.

Heat spreads throughout his chest when she begins to quietly hum. But Cicero can hardly hear the tune above the howling winds, and he places his gloved hand against her throat, hoping to _feel_ her voice if he can't hear it. Lumen stops for only a moment, and he's terrified that she'll push him away, but to his surprise she begins to hum again - louder this time.

Cicero cherishes these moments with his Listener, who seldom shows him affection without complaint. She only initiates it when the world is dark and all are asleep, when there are no witnesses to the rare moments when she is completely open.

When she is _his_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Succulent

 **Characters:** Lumen, Cicero, Camilla, Sven, and Faendal

 **Summary:** Cicero and Lumen help Faendal ruin Sven's chances with Camilla... In their own way, of course.

* * *

A small crowd gathers in the street in front of the Riverwood Trader. At first it had consisted of a few curious passersby, drawn by the sounds of shouting coming from inside the store. But when the arguing couple had taken their fight to the street, they had drawn even more onlookers.

"Camilla!" Sven shouts, ducking quickly to dodge an apple that Camilla lobs at his head. "I didn't write that stupid poem!"

"I don't believe you, Sven!" she yells, her eyes shining with anger. "I have never been so humiliated! I never want to talk to you again!" Behind her, her brother drags his hand down his face, muttering something that can't be heard amidst all the shouting.

"Camilla, _please_. I would never write something so— _so vulgar_!"

Two Bosmer and an oddly-dressed Imperial stand near the local blacksmith's home, away from the small crowd and the fighting couple. Faendal glances at his companions, who are gleefully watching the chaos unfold. "The letter I gave you wasn't vulgar..."

"It wasn't," Lumen says, leaning on the railing of the blacksmith's porch. "It just wasn't very offensive at all."

"Especially not in comparison to the fake letter Sven asked us to deliver," Cicero adds helpfully.

"What? Sven asked you to give her a fake letter?" Faendal asks, surprised.

Lumen nods. "Yeah. Great minds think alike, I guess."

Faendal chooses to ignore the insult and asks, "so what did you do?"

"Well, I couldn't decide which one of you to help. I mean, you're both acting like complete idiots for this woman."

"But sweet, helpful Cicero convinced Lumen that we should help you."

"Not that I am complaining, but what made you decide to help me rather than Sven?" he asks, crossing his arms and keeping a wary eye on the commotion in the street.

Lumen grins up at him. "We decided to help you because you're the _cute_ one."

"I'm flattered," Faendal says, though at the moment, he feels anything but. "But that doesn't explain why Camilla is so upset."

"Well, your poem was, er, _lacking_. So we wrote a new one," Lumen tells him, then gasps in delight. "Did you see that? She smacked him!" she laughs, clapping Faendal roughly on the back. "I wish you the best of luck, she's got a nasty temper."

"She's just spirited."

"Uh huh. I'm sure you'll change your tune when you're not so utterly besotted with her."

"I'm not _besotted_ —"

"Yes you are. Whenever you talk about her you get this big, dopey grin on your face."

Faendal frowns, ready to argue his point further when Cicero distracts him by waving a piece of parchment at him.

"Here! Cicero wrote a copy of the poem for himself," he smiles at the Bosmer, who is at least a head taller than he is, and adds, "Faendal may read it if he wishes."

"Why did you make a copy of it?" Faendal asks, as he takes the parchment from Cicero.

"It was Cicero and Lumen's first collaborative work, it seemed like something worth saving," Cicero turns to Lumen, sounding a little uncertain when he asks, "It is worth saving, right?"

"Sure," Lumen shrugs. "I liked it."

Faendal unfolds the parchment and begins to read aloud, "I long to take you on your hands and knees, filling you with my hot, Nordic seed—" he quickly falls silent. Blushing furiously and unable to find his voice.

"It's pretty good isn't it?" Lumen asks.

"Ooh!" Cicero chimes in, "read the part about how he wants to wrap her soft, succulent thighs around his face and—"

" _No_!" Faendal snaps. "Gods, no. That's quite all right. I think I've read enough," he stammers, handing the parchment back to Cicero.

"No one appreciates erotic poetry these days," Cicero sniffs. The Imperial couldn't look more offended as he carefully folds the paper and places it in one of the many pouches lining his belt.

Lumen grins slyly at Faendal. "Oh, don't act so innocent. Certainly you want to 'ride her as a Nord rides a steed into battle.'" Lumen punctuates her statement by grabbing her companion by the belt and miming a hip-thrusting action.

Cicero cackles. "Oh, Cicero has not been on the receiving end in quite some time," he says, all while grinning over his shoulder at Lumen and arching his back so his rear presses firmly against her hips.

Faendal's eyes grow wide. "I— you—" he sputters, turning away from the pair. "Thank you for your help, but I should get back to work. I have— wood to chop."

Lumen snorts, releasing Cicero from her grasp. "So, do you still think Riverwood is boring?"

"Yes," Cicero says, standing up straight and righting his cap, which had been knocked askew thanks to Lumen's enthusiastic thrusts. "But it was less boring today."

"I still say 'succulent' is an odd way to describe a woman's thighs," she comments, folding her arms and watching Faendal's retreating form. "It's like you're comparing her to a roasting hen."

Cicero clicks his tongue. "Poor, under appreciated Cicero was just thinking about how he would describe the Listener's thighs when he wrote that."

"Oh, _thanks_ ," she says, swatting him on the arm.

"It is a compliment!" Cicero flinches away from her, rubbing his arm and trying to look as pathetic as he possibly can. "It really is."

Lumen shakes her head, unable to keep herself from smiling. "Come on, Keeper. Let's go home," she says, then adds, "and I expect you to find a much nicer way to describe my thighs."

"Well Cicero supposes he can do that," he murmurs, a sly grin creeping across his face. "But Cicero will have to walk behind sweet Lumen so he can observe."

"Oh, but of course. Observe all you like," Lumen says, turning away from Cicero. She saunters toward the road that will lead them home, with an extra sway to her hips as the Keeper follows after her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Careless

 **Characters:** Erandur and Maeve (mage OC; not the dragonborn)

 **Summary** : Erandur gets a little snappy when you heal him in-game, so I wrote this drabble based on that. No warnings. Just fluff and a little hurt/comfort.

* * *

With Nightcaller Temple finally cleansed of Vaermina's filth, the people of Dawnstar will sleep peacefully, and sleep is exactly the thing Maeve wants most. The desire to sleep nightmare free had been the reason she agreed to help Erandur in the first place. For some reason she'd thought cleansing the temple would be much easier than it actually was. She'd expected the Priest of Mara to walk in, chant, maybe wave some burning sage around and that would be it. Maeve had not expected to contend with a handful of reanimated cultists and a thoroughly pissed off Orc war party.

" _This is the last time I help a priest_ ," she thinks as she passes by Erandur's makeshift shrine. It's true she left the College of Winterhold seeking adventure after she'd grown tired of rotting along with the rest of the mages in their little tower above the sea. But to Maeve, adventure meant throwing fireballs at the occasional bandit and collecting a bounty or two. Not dealing with psychotic daedra and their worshippers.

Maeve sighs, plopping down on a bench in front of the shrine. "I think I could sleep for a week after that," she says, yanking a boot off and rubbing her aching foot.

Erandur hesitates, as he often does, as if he must carefully weigh all of his words. "I cannot thank you enough for helping me," he finally says.

"Pardon me for saying so, but you don't seem very happy."

"I am conflicted," he tells her. "On one hand, I am pleased that the people of Dawnstar will no longer suffer from Vaermina's nightmares..."

"I'm guessing there's a big, fat 'but' in there."

He gives her a pinched look. "The cultists were my friends a long time ago, and it saddens me that their souls have been sent to Vaermina's realm."

Maeve shrugs. "They chose that path. Just be glad you were able to choose a new one," she says, and Erandur nods, the subject of the cultist's fate dropped for now. Maeve tugs her boot on, then stands and straightens her robes. "Anyway, um, I guess I am going back to the inn," she tells him. "Are you coming? You can't possibly stay _here_."

"My intention is to spend the rest of my years here, burying the past and praying to Mara for forgiveness."

"The _rest_ of your _years_?" she asks incredulously.

"I did many of unspeakable things when I was in service to Vaermina," he admits. "I have much to atone for."

"I see. Well, if you're going to be here, at least I know where to find you. I'll come visit from time to time if you like?" Maeve doesn't know the Dunmer very well. But he's been kind enough to her and he certainly seems like someone who could use a friend.

Erandur does smile at that. "I would like that very much, Maeve."

She walks toward the door, wincing when she feels the icy breeze seeping through the cracks in the wood. Turning back to Erandur, she says, "You should do that more often, by the way."

"Do what?"

"Smile," she says, and slips through the door before he can respond.

* * *

Months pass, and winter warms into spring. But in Dawnstar that doesn't mean much, only that one might see a little sunshine along with the snow. Maeve walks the familiar path from Dawnstar to Nightcaller Temple, or as the people of Dawnstar still call it, the Tower of Dawn.

Maeve has done rather well for herself over the past few months. She's been named the Thane of Riften and even managed to scrape together enough gold to purchase a home. But despite her success in Riften, thoughts of Erandur keep pulling her back to Dawnstar, and as a result, she hasn't been home in weeks. She'd like to say she stays for the lovely weather, or some other silly reason, but the truth is that she's grown to care for Erandur. Intensely so. Sometimes she wonders if the way her heart flutters when he smiles at her is a gift from Lady Mara, or a curse. Because it _hurts_. It hurts with such an intensity she doesn't know if she can stand it. It hurts because she doubts he'll ever feel the same, not when he's so wrapped up in punishing himself for the mistakes of his past.

"Anyone home?" Maeve calls out as she pushes the heavy wood and iron door open. She steps inside the temple and is greeted by the scent of firewood and jasmine cloying in the air, and there, kneeling at the small shrine is Erandur. He stands when he sees her, his lips curling up into one of his short-lived smiles, and the warmth that rushes through her at the very sight of it chases away the lingering chill of the northern winds.

"Maeve," he says, inclining his head. "It's good to see you again."

"You saw me yesterday, you know," she says, laughing.

His smile fades into something softer. Something timid and uncertain. He turns away slightly, and says, "I know. But you are a dear friend and I am always glad to see you. It doesn't matter how much time has elapsed in between visits."

"Oh, good," she says lightly. "And here I was worried you were starting to tire of my company." Maeve steps closer to him, and as her eyes adjust to the dim firelight, she can see that he looks a little worse for wear. His face is becoming more gaunt with each passing day, and the dark circles beneath his eyes are more pronounced than they were yesterday. She _has_ to get him out of this temple. Lady Mara would not want him wallowing in squalor and despair any longer.

"You needn't worry about that, Maeve," he says, awarding her with a little smirk before turning away to relight a few candles that blew out when Maeve opened the door. "So what brings you today?"

"Maybe I just wanted to visit with my favorite Dunmer," she says with a shrug. "Which is the same answer I gave you yesterday-"

Erandur breathes a soft chuckle. "And the day before."

Maeve smiles at the sound of his laughter, as quiet as it is, it's rather pleasing to hear. "I strive for consistency," she says. "Actually, I came here to ask you if you'd like to travel with me. I have a house in Riften, you know, and it probably wouldn't hurt to have it blessed." She hates to be vague, but he can't stay another day in this temple. It is doing him more harm than good.

"All right." His answer comes easily, as if he'd been waiting for a reason, _any reason_ , to leave Nightcaller Temple behind.

Maeve is surprised that he agrees so quickly. She had been expecting a little resistance from the Dunmer. "How long will it take you to pack? As much as I love Dawnstar, I'm ready to be in a warmer climate for a little while."

He smiles again. "It won't take long, just give me a few minutes and we can be on our way."

* * *

They have been on the road for barely a day and things are already going horribly wrong. First it's wolves, then bandits, and now as the sun begins to set, vampires. Of course, when the vampires show up that's when things start to go from bad to worse.

It all happens so fast. The battle is a flurry of chaos; blades and spells tear through the air at lightning speed. But when Maeve turns to see the blade of a dagger piercing Erandur's chest, time seems to slow to a crawl. A river of crimson pours from the wound despite Erandur's efforts to stem the flow. There's so much blood Maeve doesn't know if he will survive.

She moves quickly, ending the vampire's un-life before he has the chance to sink his fangs into the wounded Dunmer at his feet. Maeve rushes to Erandur's side, casting a quick look around to make sure no other vampires are preparing to strike, but they are all dead. A Breton battlemage and a Dunmer priest are not the easy targets the cretins thought they would be.

Maeve places her hands over the deep, seeping gash in Erandur's chest, trying like the Void to focus on calling on her magicka, though it is rather difficult when each labored breath from him is like a kick to the gut. If she loses him… No, no. She can't afford to think like that _now_. The bright, golden pulse of a healing spell flares in her hands, knitting his torn flesh together. His breathing slows and evens as she pushes her healing magic deep within him, deep enough to ease the bone-deep ache of a recent battle.

Her hand must have lingered on his chest for too long. She isn't sure. But he pushes her hands away, rougher than she ever would expect him to, and he narrows his eyes at her. "I hope you're not expecting a 'thank you'!" he snaps, adjusting his robes as he stands and strides away from her, leaving her hurt and utterly confused. For a brief moment she wonders if she's trapped in a strange dream, but she knows that can't be true, because no dream ever hurt like _this_.

An uncomfortable silence falls between them as they sift through the piles of ash that were once bodies. Bodies of people who loved and lost, and eventually turned. Maeve wonders if vampires were burdened by such painful and foolish notions such as love. There mere thought of love tastes as bitter as vampire ash. Who knew that a few careless words, and an equally careless emotion could rend her warrior's heart in two? She shakes her head in a vain attempt to cast away any remnants of that soft feeling, and the hot tears that prick at her eyes. It's not the first time she loved someone who didn't feel the same way, and she'll get over it just like she did with the others. " _It's no big deal,"_ she silently assures herself, so willing to believe her own lies if only they would give her reprieve from the ache that no healing spell could ever mend.

They travel in silence for hours, and the harsh, cold winds of the Pale become softer and warmer as they head further south. Glittering expanses of snow give way to fields of grass and farmlands, and they stop for the night at an inn just off the road.

Maeve lingers beside Erandur as he pays for their rooms, and once the transaction is complete he turns to her, his eyes tired and weary. "Good night, Maeve," he says, sounding as mournful as ever, and he steps away from her, quickly vanishing behind the door of his room before Maeve can respond.

Her confusion turns to irritation when she enters her room, and she throws her traveling pack down with more force than necessary. What in the name of Mara is wrong with him? What changed after one, simple healing spell?

Then it hits her, that healing spell was the first time she's ever touched him, and she wonders if she'd crossed a boundary and pushed him out of his comfort zone. Erandur has been through so much, and he's experienced so much more pain than she ever has. To those who have known only pain, the most simple and innocent of actions can trigger distressing memories of the past. Guilt gnaws at her as she sinks down to the bed, though she tries to ignore it. She'll apologize tomorrow, and perhaps that will set things right—

No. This can't wait until tomorrow. _She_ can't wait.

She strides to the door, her feet almost moving of their own accord as if some unseen force is driving her forward. Maeve wrenches the door open and walks face-first into a very surprised Erandur, and she stumbles back, only to be steadied by his gentle hands, her heart melting all over again when he smiles at her.

"Maeve-"

"Erandur-"

They both laugh. The uncomfortable fog that had enveloped them finally dissipating in the warmth of his smile, which Maeve cannot help but return.

"May I come in?" he asks.

"Oh, yes. Of course, I'm sorry, I-" Maeve's voice trails off when his smile fades, and her heart threatens to break at the sorrow in his eyes.

"I want to apologize for my behavior earlier, I was-"

"Startled?"

"No." Erandur shakes his head. "I was cruel, and for that I am truly sorry."

Maeve shrugs and says, "It's all right." Because it is. Because he is speaking to her with his pleasantly accented voice and watching her with his kind eyes, and as long as he keeps doing that, everything will be fine.

He steps forward, gently taking her hands in his. "Your kindness and friendship are more than I deserve," he says, and she so dearly wishes he would stop speaking ill of himself, and she almost tells him so, but the severity of his expression steals her will to speak. "I abandoned those who once considered me a friend, a brother-" he takes a deep breath, not finished, but not able to continue.

"Go on," she says, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "You can tell me."

He laughs in spite of himself. "A little known fact about restoration magic, is that it's one of the more emotionally charged schools of magic. Next to destruction, of course. So when you healed me- I felt-" he pauses, then after some deliberation he finally says, "I felt _you_."

Maeve looks away, dread spreading in the pit of her stomach when she finally realizes what he's trying to tell her. Healing him had opened him up to her emotions, and as her healing magic caressed his flesh, it had pushed even further than she meant for it to because she had been so afraid of losing him. As a result, her magic touched his soul, and granted him a glimpse inside hers.

"Maeve," he says, his voice almost pleading. "I am honored. Deeply. But I am not worthy. I am a coward and I have proven that to be true on many occasions. I ran from my friends and left them to die, and today, I ran from you."

Maeve snorts, unable to keep from smiling. "So that's why you acted like such a grump, earlier?" she asks. "Because you think you aren't worthy of love?"

"In so many words, yes," he admits.

"Well, that's not likely to stop me from-" she hesitates, but she may as well admit it, he's already felt it "—from loving you."

"Maeve," he says, and he's got that look in his eyes, that same look he gets when he's so desperately trying to convince her that he's right. But he's not. Not about this.

"Erandur, for a Priest of Mara you certainly are blind to the gifts your goddess has laid at your feet."

That stuns him as sure as a slap to the face would. "I am a fool," he murmurs.

"You are," she says. "But that doesn't change how I feel."

"Then I am a very lucky fool," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "And I owe you my thanks."

"For what? For getting you to a nicer climate? For healing you?" Maeve smiles at him, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. Giddy with the thrill of being so close to getting what she's wanted for so long. "Really, I've done quite a few things to earn your gratitude, so specifics would be nice."

Erandur pulls her into an embrace, and Maeve melts against him when he says, "For warming my heart."


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt:** Cagamosis (an unhappy marriage)

**Pairing:** Bolli/Nivenor

This was written for a word prompt meme that was floating around on tumblr. I really enjoyed writing this one. I think I might expand on this idea someday.

~~~~~

Sometimes she wondered when love turned to hate. It happened so slowly, it was almost impossible to pin-point the exact moment when it turned. But the dark, twisting mass of anger and hurt was too much to bear, and _she wanted out_. She could hear the whispers of the townspeople as she walked through Riften's busy streets. Her keen, elven ears didn't miss their whispers of "Poor Nivenor, she must be so embarrassed."

They were right. She was embarrassed.

For a while, frivolously spending Bolli's hard-earned money was revenge enough. It's not as if she could stop him from visiting Haelga. It's not as if she could force him to keep it in his pants. She tried, though. She confronted him about his indiscretions more times than she cared to count, and all he had were half-assed excuses. Eventually, his excuses became accusations. It was her fault, after all. She's a bad wife. She couldn't please him the way Halega did.

What an ass.

At least she had the decency to keep her affairs private. No one but her husband knew about the young dock worker she entertained herself with. He was everything Bolli was not. All sun tanned skin and hard earned muscle, and completely enamoured with her. But it wasn't enough to keep Bolli home. It wasn't enough to inspire him to claim his wife once more. He simply accepted it as the way things were, and then went crawling back to Haelga.

Nivenor thought about leaving him, but that would be giving him exactly what he wanted, and leaving him meant leaving his money. She wasn't about to make herself destitute because of him. Nivenor couldn't live with him, or the shame he brought upon her. But she couldn't live without his money, either. There was only one way to be rid of him, while keeping a firm hold on his money. She needed to arrange an accident. But, how? She would be caught if she did it on her own, and Nivenor needed to be the very picture of an innocent, grieving widow.

She struggled with the idea for weeks. How do you ask someone to kill for you? And where would she even find such a person? She didn't have any friends to speak of, and she certainly didn't have any acquaintances who would do something like that.

The answer to her question came to her when she least expected it; she was glancing through some books for sale at one of the open stalls when she came across _it_. There, at the bottom of a crate of discount books was an old tome. It was frayed and worn, but the nearly illegible letters of the front title piqued her curiosity. She picked it up and ran her fingers across the embossed text. The gold leaf had worn off years ago, but the leather still held the indentation of the words - _A Kiss, Sweet Mother_.

Stealing the book was easy, and gathering the materials for the Black Sacrament was even easier. And on a dark night when the moons were new and Bolli was wrapped between another woman's thighs, Nivenor arranged the deadly offering in the basement of an abandoned house. Human bones, a human heart, candles and nightshade. All innocuous on their own, but together they would carry her prayer to the Night Mother.

Her hands shook violently when she rubbed nightshade petals across the blade of a dagger. Part of her wanted to flee, but she couldn't return to her unhappy home and her unhappy life. She could no longer bear the shame of an unfaithful husband, nor could she bear the looks the townspeople gave her. She was tired of being pitied. She was tired of being mocked. She was tired of Bolli.

With her mind made up, she held the anointed dagger aloft and whispered her prayer. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me-" her voice wavered. She could feel something dark coiling around her heart as the words left her in a rush. But it was too late to stop. She would finish this, even if the dark deed would cost her more than gold in the end. Nivenor stabbed the effigy of her husband, the tip of the dagger splintering the rotten, wood floor. "- for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt:** Adopting a dog  
**Pairing:** Lumen and Cicero

~~~

Riften is a town where everyone is for sale and everything is negotiable. So when Lumen asks Cicero to go shopping with her, he figures she is wanting new weapons or new clothing. If he’s being completely honest, he is _hoping_ she’s here to purchase something of the lacy, barely there variety. But when he enters the market to search for her, he does not find her at any of the usual stalls. Instead, he finds her standing near a makeshift kennel, smiling broadly and playing with the ugliest creature Cicero has ever seen.

"Lumen, what is that— _thing_?"

"He’s a Breton bulldog,” she says, laughing softly. “Isn't he wonderful?"

Cicero's eyes are riveted to the beast leaping around Lumen's legs. It's a short, bow-legged animal with no tail to speak of, just a useless nub. The worst offense is the animal's face; a wrinkled brow, a squashed nose, and the most severe under bite he's ever seen. 

After a long moment of staring at the hideous creature, he finally finds his voice again. "Are you certain it’s a dog?"

"Don't be silly." Lumen leans down to pat it on the head. "He's obviously a dog! And a very handsome one at that! _Yes he is_!" she coos. The supposed 'dog' responds to her by wagging his nubby tail and slobbering all over her hand.

Cicero is certain the Listener has gone temporarily insane. How could anyone call that thing handsome? "What happened to his face?" he asks.

Lumen glances at him, one eyebrow lifting in amusement. "Nothing! He was born like this."

He snorts. "And no one thought to drown the grotesque monstrosity in the lake?"

"Cicero!"

He holds his hands up in a placating gesture. "Cicero is just wondering why you are so fond of this ugly, messy creature. Wouldn't you rather have a proper pet? Like a rat or a snake or—"

"He's not ugly!" she exclaims, offended on the dogs behalf. "He has personality! I don't want a rat or a snake. I told you ages ago that I wanted a dog."

"The Sanctuary is no place for a dog." He folds his arms, determined to stand his ground even though he knows he's already lost this battle. "It would be better to have a pet that could be contained and kept away from Mother."

"Oh, it'll be fine," she says, waving her hand in dismissal. "We'll train him to stay away from Mother's shrine." Lumen turns her attention back to the dog, ruffling his ears. "Talos is very smart. He’ll make an excellent assassin."

Cicero laughs at that. “Talos?” he asks, unable to believe that his Listener— his vicious, bloodthirsty, dragon-slaying Listener, is losing her mind over a stupid dog. “You are going to offend every Nord in Skyrim if you name a dog _Talos_.”

“They can get over it.” She beckons him closer. “Come on, let him smell you so you can bond.”

Cicero could scream. “Do I have to?”

“Yes!”

He has absolutely no desire to bond with that _thing_. But despite his repulsion, he knows he’ll not win this fight, or any other fight, when it comes to the stubborn elf and her ugly beast. So he swallows his pride, determined to make peace with the drooling mutt.

* * *

**Prompt:** Fear  
 **Pairing:** Lumen and Cicero

~~~

"Cicero!"

The Keeper sighs and sets his feather quill aside. Dawnstar Sanctuary has been relatively quiet as of late. The initiates are out on contracts, Nazir is speaking to a client, and Babette left hours ago for a quick bite to eat. Cicero had hoped to have some time to reflect and to write in his journal, but clearly the Listener had other plans for him. Not that he minds, but can’t a man get a little time to himself on occasion? Is it too much to ask?

"Cicero can you, ah— can you come in here please?" she calls out, her voice shaking. "I— I need help!"

The fear in her voice prompts him into action. Cicero pushes away from his small writing desk and runs down the hall to the Listener's bedroom. "Lumen? What is—" words fail him when he steps through her door to find her standing on top of a bookshelf, dancing from foot to foot with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He swallows hard, because he _will not_ laugh at her.

Not yet, anyway. 

"What is the matter?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Oh, thank the Eight— Nine— _whatever!_ " she gasps, then points to the floor. "There! There it is! I need you to kill it!"

Cicero is always happy to kill on his Listener's command, but when looks to where she's pointing, he doesn't see anything. "Has dearest Lumen been dipping into the skooma again?" he asks, glancing around the room for any discarded bottles.

"No!" she snaps, glaring at him. "Look closer— Oh! _Oh no_! Hurry up! It's climbing up the bookshelf!" Her voice trails off into a strangled squeal, and she buries her face in her hands, her voice muffled when she says, "Cicero, please! I'm _begging_ you! Just kill the damn thing!"

He steps forward, overcome with the need to comfort his Listener, because she should never have to beg Cicero for anything. But his desire to comfort her wanes when he finally lays eyes on the source of her discomfort; a small, brown spider crawling up the edge of the bookcase. He gently scoops the spider in his gloved hands and holds it up to Lumen, which only results in more shrieking. 

"Is this the foul beast that chased sweet Lumen atop a bookshelf like a scared, little kitten?"

"Get it away from me!" She kicks at him, and Cicero dodges her foot, cackling. "It's not funny!" .

"Oh, no, I must disagree with you. It really _is_ funny!" Cicero laughs. "Perhaps I should put him up there with you?"

"No!" The word comes out in an ear-splitting shriek, the bookshelf wobbling ominously when Lumen tries to move away from Cicero. The combination of the teetering bookshelf and her carelessness finally sends her tumbling off the shelf, and into Cicero's arms.

"It is just a spider!" he snaps, doing his level best not to drop the flailing elf. It really is difficult to hold someone taller than he is, and it doesn't help that Lumen is mostly legs. “It wasn’t even a poisonous one!”

"I don't care," she whines, taking deep breaths and finally starting to calm down. That is until she looks at Cicero, her eyes wide, and asks, "Wait— you had it in your hands. Where did it go?"

"Cicero was more concerned with catching you before you broke your neck," he says, his voice stiff with disapproval. Really, the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood shouldn't be afraid of something as harmless as a spider. "I don't know what happened to the spider. Perhaps it is still in my hands."

Lumen screams at that and scrambles out of Cicero arms. The Bosmer stumbles around the room, pulling her clothes off and throwing them onto the floor until she is left in just her breast band and smalls. She combs her fingers through her hair, panic stricken and muttering, _"It's in my hair, it's in my hair, I know it's in my hair!"_

Cicero frowns at the gooey smear on his previously clean gloves. He knows he should probably tell Lumen that the spider is no more. He should. He _really_ should. But he has a nearly naked, very frightened elf at his mercy, and Cicero truly would be a fool if he were to waste this opportunity. He slips his gloves off, carefully laying them on a nearby table before walking over to Lumen. She looks as if she's on the verge of tears when he gently grabs her wrists, stilling her hands in her hair before she twists every lock into a knot.

"Let Cicero help," he says, then his fingers are sliding through her hair, untangling the mats she made with all her frenzied combing. "Hmm... Well it's not in your hair."

"Are you sure?" she asks meekly.

"Yes.” He cups her jaw in both hands and pulling her closer so he can kiss her. "I am sure." Another kiss. "But I am not done looking. It could be hiding somewhere." His hands leave her jaw to meander across her shoulders, sliding down her arms.

"I don't think you're looking for the spider at all," she says, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Oh, but I am! Cicero is just very, very thorough.” He places his hands on her bare hips, grinning up at her. “Shall Cicero continue?”

“Don’t!” she gasps. “I need to know if it’s really dead or not.”

Cicero sighs. “Yes, sweetness. It is dead. It’s sticky remains are all over poor Cicero’s gloves.”

She shifts her weight on her feet, visibly relaxing now that she is no longer in danger of being _spidered_. “Even so,” she says at length. “You should probably keep looking just in case.”

“Do not worry, sweet Listener,” he says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Cicero shall leave no curve unexplored.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been in a rut lately, so I'm working on old prompts so I don't feel completely unproductive.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tumblr prompts. The idea is to have your followers send you a word (or two) and write a 3-5 sentence fic around them. I went a little beyond that… oops lol. I hope the time in which these scenes are occurring is not too confusing. The first one is shortly after Lumen’s mother has died, and the second is when she first came to Skyrim.
> 
> I’ve been in a bad mood and I feel like that bled into my prompts. I shall endeavour to write some fluff and cheer myself up...

**Prompt(s):** Heiwako requested “How dare (you)” and “Saccharine”.  
**Pairing:** Malrian and Lumen

~~~

Malrian’s estate is quiet in a way most homes are not. There is a deep stillness that creeps along the floors and frescoes. Passersby on the road might look to the estate with a sense of wonder and longing. They might assume the inhabitants are happy, wallowing in the hollow grandeur of high ceilings and marble floors. Lumen had entertained the same thoughts, long ago, when she and her mother flitted from one hovel to the next. Oh, how _wrong_ she had been.

“Your lessons seem to be going well.” Her master doesn’t look away from the letter in his hands; a report from her tutor, no doubt. 

“Are you pleased?” She knows the answer to this question, but she is required to ask it. Although, she would rather know why he bothers to cultivate her intelligence when he works so hard to cull her free will.

He drops a hand to the nape of her neck, his thumb feathering along the sensitive flesh of her hairline. “I am very pleased, little dove,” he says. “You are doing so well.”

 _“Little dove,”_ he calls her, but he has clipped her wings.

Lumen smiles at the praise, but there are tears pressing against her eyelids. Her mother lies beneath freshly tilled earth. A crown of Nightshade will adorn her grave when the spring rains come. The absence of her mother plagues her, but the hollow ache of loss is nothing compared to her silent rage. She often finds herself looking out at her mother’s grave, her jaw clenched, holding in a litany of curses she can never say. _“How dare you leave me here with him!”_

“It’s a lovely day,” he says, looking up from his work. “What would you like to do, pet?”

There is a trap hidden within the cadence of his cultured voice. “Only your will,” she answers, drawing a smile out of him.

“Good girl.”

Day after day, she kneels at her master’s side until her feet grow numb and her hips ache. But she does not complain or fidget. If she is good then she might be rewarded. _Might be_. Malrian’s moods are as fickle as the winds, and he is as likely to caress her neck as he is to break it. His kisses come with all the tenderness of a wolf’s maw— with soft lips against her cheek and hard fingers around her throat. His affection is sweet and deadly, like a saccharine poison, and she finds herself craving the high of earning his favor, even though it will be followed by a crushing low.

* * *

**Prompt(s):** aliceliveson requested “righteous” and cylonis requested “harsh whisper”  
**Pairing:** Lumen and… a victim? I guess?

~~~

Lumen watches a murder of crows pick at a body that isn’t quite dead. The wounded Altmer doesn’t have the strength to swat them away. Whatever fight he has left is reserved for his last breaths. She counts the shallow rise and fall of his chest until it does not rise again.

Some might call this a righteous kill. There is no love of Altmer in the land of Skyrim. Not after the Thalmor swept through, burning temples, shattering icons, and crushing the symbol of the Nord’s faith under their heels. But this Altmer was no Thalmor. He was no one, really. Just another mer trying to survive in this harsh, war-torn land. 

To Lumen, he was just a vessel in which she could pour all her cruelty. In the fleeting moments where his lifeblood drained, she felt _something_ stir the dead leaves of her heart. But in the span of one breath to the next, the feeling is gone, and she is numb once again.

The clamor of the carrion birds reaches a new peak as more crows join the feast. Black beaks glisten with blood as they shred through the softer parts before moving on to the more grueling task of stripping flesh from bone. The birds sound like a chorus of cackling hagravens as they squabble over the meat. 

She looks down at her hands. The blood is mostly dry, and it has flaked off in some places, leaving a ruddy stain behind. She tries so hard not to be like this, and she can control it for a while. But she will always crave the _rush_ — that surge of sadistic pleasure is more potent than any potion, and its hooks are driven deeper with each life she takes.

The wind picks up, brushing her hair away from her face and tangling it around the clasps of her armor. She pulls her legs up to her chest to ward off a sudden chill. “I guess I’ll stay here with you,” she says to the corpse— or maybe the birds. She isn’t sure, but she keeps talking anyway. “It’s getting dark. I’m not sure where I’m going. You were on your way to Helgen, but I don’t think I want to go there. It’s too close to the border. Too close to the Thalmor. I need to go further north.”

Lumen turns her gaze to the heavens, cataloging the colors of the burning sunset. The branches and leaves of the trees look black in contrast to the scalding orange sky. “I probably should’ve waited to kill you, though.” Her strained laugh is devoid of mirth. “I think I’m lost,” she says, the words coming out in a harsh whisper when she realizes the gravity of her situation. She is lost and alone in an unfamiliar land, no supplies to speak of, and talking to a corpse that will soon attract more than just birds and insects. 

“Shit,” she groans, spooking the feasting crows when she abruptly gets to her feet. Her eyes linger on the prone form of her prey. Most people would turn away from such a grim sight, but Lumen wants to commit it to memory. Because when the blood is washed from her hands and the numbness twists into something more caustic, she will need this memory. But like with any addiction, the memory will fade...

After a long moment, Lumen turns away, leaving the Altmer to the mercy of the wilds.


End file.
